


Wolf Mother

by Munchy



Series: But there was no sound (there was only me and my disgrace) [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur is here and he is useless, Basically I was tired of the POV always centering on John when Abby got pregnant, Both John and Abigail are selfish and toxic, Character Study, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hosea "I'm a tired dad but I don't want to be tired nor a dad" Matthews, Hurt/Comfort, I guess some emotional tension is resolved here, I mean John's got some affection for Abby, If anything Hosea is the good guy, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pre-Canon, The Abigail/John is one-sided, The underage tag is there because Abby is 17 in this fic and there's mention of her having sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, but for who? i'm not exactly sure, but not enough to NOT runaway for an entire year, but nothing explicate, neither is the good guy here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munchy/pseuds/Munchy
Summary: Abigail Roberts is many things, but never a coward. For those that know her, they often describe her stubborn resolve as an unmovable mountain, when they were being nice that is. And Abigail may not be vain, but she would admit to a little preening whenever someone complimented her strong-willed resolve. It’s just who she is and always has been.With that being said, however, she’s currently terrified.





	Wolf Mother

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I'm writing for the RDR2 fandom and I have never had so much trouble writing a fic like this. I guess that's what I get for diving headfirst into a subject I don't have a lot of knowledge or experience in, with characters I don't have a lot of knowledge of, and for a game I've never played. Regardless, I was sick and tired of seeing fics that went into John's thoughts and feelings the moment he found out Abigail was pregnant, and thought a change of POV was in order. 
> 
> Because Abigail " _I probably got pregnant when I was 17 and forced to become a responsible adult while my not-so-husband ran off for a year after I gave birth to our child and learned NOTHING from his time away_ " Roberts deserves better from this fandom.
> 
> Title and lyrics are from "Wolf" by First Aid Kit

_Wolf-mother, where you been?_

_You look so worn, so thin_

_You're a taker, devils-maker_

_Let me hear you sing, hey-ya hey-ya_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Abigail Roberts is many things, but never a coward. For those that know her, they often describe her stubborn resolve as an unmovable mountain, when they were being nice that is. And Abigail may not be vain, but she would admit to a little preening whenever someone complimented her strong-willed resolve. It’s just who she is and always has been.

 

With that being said, however, she’s currently terrified.

 

Looking down at the remnants of Pearson’s venison stew from last night, Abigail releases a shaky breath. The tall grass that shrouds her from the prying eyes of the camp brings her little comfort. This is the third time her stomach convulsed this morning and is the fourth day in a row where she found her meal puddled in the tall grass below her.

 

She’s always careful. It’s in her nature as a working girl. She had to be. Other girls that got sick like this were soon on the streets begging for money. Abigail knew this because she saw it herself, seen it happen to the few friends she made in those whore houses back east. Yet, despite it all, here she is, making the same careless mistakes.

 

Or maybe just one mistake, because let’s face it, Abigail made herself the fool the moment she fell for John Marston. And in doing so, was careless with him, and only him.

 

Abigail lets herself breath before picking herself up on trembling legs. Brushing back her hair and wiping her mouth, she makes herself look presentable, forces herself to look like nothing had happened. Building up her walls as best she can because no one was gonna do it for her. With one last sigh, she turns around.

 

And runs right into Hosea Matthews.

 

“Abby,” he greets, a soft smile on his face.

 

Abigail feels herself gasp through her nose, while her eyes go wide.

 

Hosea leans to the side, peering behind her to observe the bile that was slowly sinking into the Earth, like vicious poison. “You feelin’ alright?” he asks, not meeting her eyes.

 

Something very fragile inside her starts to rattle then, shuddering like branches in the storm that suddenly appears in Abigail’s heart. Her knuckles turn white as she grips her dress, feeling herself shake with the anxious feeling rising up her throat.

 

Hosea stands straight then, eyeing the woman in front of him. Abigail avoids his all-knowing, blue gaze, finding the camp in the distance far more interesting. She finds a greasy mop of hair almost immediately, sitting by the fire. Focuses on it without meaning too.

 

 _God_ , is she ever the predictable fool.

 

Hosea waits patiently, giving Abigail far more time than anyone else in camp would. She follows the figure with long hair as he gets up, walks over to Pearson’s wagon, and gets another cup of coffee. She watches the form laugh, too far to see that smile, but close enough to see the tale-tell sign of shaking shoulders. She feels her breath stutter, her heart beating in her throat.

 

“No.” she finally answers. The sound of cicadas waking with the morning, filling the silence between them.

 

Hosea sighs. Abigail continues to watch.

 

“Wanna try again?” he asks because of course he would. Never demanding. Just nudging.

 

She feels her jaw clench, then trembles with the force. The figure in the distance, the sight of her ever foolish affections, walks away, out of site. Abigail doesn’t know why, there are plenty of people in camp that could have caught her eye, milling about in the morning hours. Yet the moment John Marston leaves, she loses her anchor. The only thing keeping her from facing the shame of the world.

 

“No…,” she says like a child, lip trembling and voice suddenly rough.

 

Hosea doesn’t reply, and for some reason, that is what brakes her.

 

She won’t make a sound though. She can yell and scream in rage with the best of them, but she was always good at being a whore.

 

And whores don’t cry.

 

* * *

 

Hosea reassures her before they ride into town.

 

“We’ll talk to a doctor, get their opinion first. No use panicking over something that ain’t real.” The words are comforting, but deep down, Abigail knows it’s just a crock of shit.

 

She’s with child, she knows it. The doctor affirms it.

 

“You’re about six to seven weeks, Ma’am. Congratulations.”

 

Hosea isn’t pleased, Abigail can tell, but he feigns it well enough. Plays the happy father-in-law, who's been waiting for a grandchild. A hysterical part of Abigail wants to laugh at how close to the truth that actually is, but she too is good at playing pretend. Smiles excitedly and places a hand over her heart in gratitude despite the nausea that hits her harder and harder with each passing minute.

 

As they leave the office, Abigail gazes at Hosea, carefully gauging him.

 

She finds the man already watching her. His face looking older than she’s ever seen it. Yet despite the tired look, there’s not a lot to glean from it. Hosea is a conman, after all, a good one at that. His expression gives nothing away as to what he’s thinking, and Abigail finds herself terrified by it.

 

“Well, let’s get some lunch then.” Hosea suddenly says after a sigh. Abigail doesn’t say anything, simply nods and follows his lead down the road to a little cafe.

 

The anxiety builds in her chest, stabbing her in the throat and making her nauseous. When they take their seats, she’s already prepared herself for the worst. Hosea orders a pot of tea for both of them and a slice of the cake sitting on the counter. Abigail looks at her hands in her lap, watches them fidget and tremble against her control.

 

When the cake and tea are set in front of them, Hosea takes the time to sip at it before looking up.

 

“You should eat something.” he says, “Try to get something down so you don’t faint.”

 

Abigail obeys him and picks up a fork instead of going for the teacup, too afraid she’ll spill it seeing as her hands won’t stop shaking. She manages to get a small piece into her mouth and chews slowly. The cake is good, but she can barely taste it.

 

“I’m not mad.” Hosea suddenly says, making Abigail lookup, “I’m just... _surprised_.” Now that, she knows is a lie.

 

“No your not,” she calls him out on it, eyes flicking up to meet his. Hosea starts at her for a second before he chuckles.

 

“Almost as good as Susan when it comes to calling bullshit. Can see why she’s taken with you,” he sits a little straighter, placing the teacup on its little saucer. It’s a small victory against the gang’s clever old fox, but Abigail gets no joy from it.“All right, you got me. I’m not all that surprised.”

 

Abigail looks back at her fork as she stabs her cake none too delicately, “Course you ain’t. I’m not exactly what you’d call a _proper lady_.” she says, tone self-deprecating.

 

“No, but you’re smart,” he retorts, a frown marring his features, “So I guess I’m just disappointed.”

 

And that, for some reason, hurts her more.

 

Abigail drops her fork, lets herself deflate and look into her tea, “That’s your own fault for thinkin’ such a thing. If I was any bit as smart as you say, I wouldn’t have let this happen.”

 

Hosea looks like he’s about to say something when the bell on top of the door rings, signaling the arrival of a customer.

 

“There you are.” a raspy voice says.

 

Abigail’s brows furrow, as her body grows stiff. That voice has haunted her dreams for the past few weeks, makes her stomach drop to hear it so close. A part of her wants to bolt then, grab the horse she came riding in on and run, never to return. Dutch and his bullshit about loyalty be _damned_. Another wants to lash out, let loose the sound of a wounded animal as she claws and spits at the person that put her here in the first place. Blame them instead of herself for the problem she created.

 

Instead, she closes her eyes and grits her teeth.

 

“John! What brings you here?” Hosea greets.

 

“Dutch got worried when you wasn’t in camp this morning. Sent me out to find ya.” John says, closer now. “Abigail?” his tone is pleasantly surprised.

 

Abigail opens her eyes and meets a set of beautiful brown staring back at her. The smile she gives him trembles, she can tell, but John doesn’t seem to notice, because he smiles right back. “Mr. Marston,” she greets.

 

He chuckles, sending a rush of warmth across her face despite everything, “You know you don’t have to call me that. John’s just fine.” Abigail feels her hands clenched into fists under the table, nails digging into her palms. She smiles anyway.

 

“If you say so,” she tells him, wonders if she’ll still have the privilege once he finds out.

 

Hosea coughs, gaining John’s attention, “Miss Roberts and I are on a little scouting trip. Abby here makes getting information a little easier, and I wanted to show her the ropes. But I didn’t mean to make Dutch worry. We’ll be back soon though.”

 

John nods, “All right then. I’ll let him know.” he tips his hat at Abigail, a kind smile on his face that makes her feel queasy, before parting ways and heading back outside.

 

She stares at the spot he once stood for a moment, contemplating her choices in life that lead her to this moment.

 

“It’s John’s… isn’t it.” She hears Hosea ask.

 

She swallows down the bile that suddenly wants to come up.

 

“Yeah…” she murmurs, knowing full well he can hear her. She doesn’t know why, but the acidic feeling of shame hits her hard when she admits it.

 

Hosea then says, “Are you sure?”

 

And God only knows why, but that makes her _laugh_.

 

Maybe because it’s proof that she ain’t fit to be a decent lady.

 

* * *

 

Before they actually make it back to camp, there is a fork in the road about two miles out of town. Abigail calls bullshit on God himself for such an obvious metaphor. It pisses her off more than she thought it would, and she feels herself grip the reins of her mount til she’s shaking all over. Still, she remains silent as Hosea slows down right at the split.

 

“Ya know, you never answered my question,” Hosea says, glancing back at her patiently.

 

Abigail sighs, “About what?” she asks knowing full well what he’s referring to, and it only becomes more apparent when Hosea doesn’t reply. She looks to the road that leads further west, away from the camp and her mountain of problems. “I’m usually very careful about these things. But there was one time with John…”

 

She trails off, thinking about that night where, after a good score and drinks were passed around, she leaned in and whispered in John’s ear in a drunken gamble. Watched in delight as he flushed something fierce despite the burning light from the fire. How, with a serious face, gently took her hand and lead her far from camp. Remembers how he held her that night and how her heart couldn’t stop fluttering.

 

Hosea doesn’t say anything for a while, simply stares at her with something unreadable on his face. Then, “I’m gonna be honest with you Abigail,” he starts. There’s a lecture on his tongue, she can see it clear as day. Maybe it’s the anxiety and rage building up in her because of the shit hand she’s been dealt here. Maybe it’s the fear of the unknown, of not knowing where she’ll be laying her head tonight. Whatever the reason, Abigail suddenly can’t help herself.

 

“If you’re just gonna tell me what a stupid whore I am, then don’t bother. Don’t need to hear about shit I already know.” There’s a growl in her voice as she speeds her horse up past Hosea, heading towards camp.

 

“That’s not what I was gonna say.” He calls out to her.

 

She whips around, feeling the anger take hold so easily, like it always does, cause Abigail doesn’t know how to properly say, _I’m afraid_ . She glares at him, “Then what were you gonna lecture me on, _huh?”_ her voice accusing.

 

“I was gonna say that you don’t have to do this. Carry that child I mean.” Hosea’s face remains perfectly aloof, but Abigail had a knack for picking apart people. It was her job after all. He’s hiding something, and she hasn’t been in the gang long enough to trust that any of them won’t hurt her in some way for stepping out of line.

 

She turns her horse around, stares at him with a glare so sharp that maybe she could cut away at his face to reveal what his thoughts were. Find the truth buried there like a long-forgotten treasure. But Hosea just keeps looking at her with that guarded expression.

 

“I know of remedies, herb mixtures, or even less dangerous methods. You say the word and I can get them for you.” he continues.

 

Abigail pauses. Wonders why he's willing to help her. After all, she's just a dumb fucking whore that fell for a man that only saw her as a good lay, far as she can tell. However, some part of her, the part that makes Hosea think she's smart, tells her that it's not about _her_ or how _she_ feels. It's about the _gang_.

 

It makes sense, she thinks. At the moment the gang doesn't need another mouth to feed. And it's certainly no place to raise a child. No matter how she spins it, it's either gonna be her or the kid, and if she's being honest with herself, she'd make for a terrible mother. It's just a plain bad idea to keep the baby.

 

So she resigns herself for the people she's barely known for less than a year. People she can't quite call family yet but feels obligated to because that's what Dutch told her once. She nods at Hosea, "Okay."

 

Hosea nods back with his blank expression and starts down the road after her. As he passes her, she finds that she doesn't want to move. Looking at the fork in the road and feeling a sudden sense of dread.

 

* * *

 

 

Abigail remembers a fellow working girl once telling her to tie her corsets a little tighter if she ever found herself with child. To suffocate the life inside her before it suffocated her. She had been fifteen and the conversation terrified her. Now though, she finds herself feeling for the strings hanging behind her back, grasping for them in frustration.

 

There’s the sound of heavy fabric behind her before a startled voice greets her, “Ah… Sorry, Miss Roberts. I forgot…”

 

It’s Arthur of all people. Probably looking for Susan seeing as how, until recently, the woman hadn’t been sharing her tent. Abigail gave her tent to Karen about a week ago due to her getting a bad cold. It was the least Abigail could do.

 

“It’s fine Arthur,” she says, “You’ve seen me far less clothed than this.” Her tone is light, joking even, but deep down she wants to scream. She tugs on the laces a little more harshly than she would normally.

 

There’s a bit of awkward silence after that. The only sound being Abigail pulling the corset tighter and tighter. Her lungs start to burn as she breathes out.

 

“You okay, Abigail?” he asks which startles her slightly. Arthur must have taken a step further into the tent, because he sounds a lot closer now, “I ain’t an expert at this, but I’m pretty sure you pull any tighter and you’ll pass out.” his tone is light, like Abigail’s was, but there’s something underneath it. Something unfamiliar and fidgety. Like Arthur was attempting to make small talk of all things.

 

“I’m fine,” she lies dropping her hands before turning around. Whatever smile Arthur had on falls, giving her this look like he doesn’t quite believe her but before he can open his mouth there’s a cough behind him. Abigail watches his face blush, something she rarely sees, before she glances to the opening of the tent.

 

Hosea is there, arms crossed, “Arthur…” he says with a raised brow.

 

Arthur sighs, “This ain’t—”

 

“I know, but Miss Roberts hasn’t been feeling well, probably got what’s been plaguing Karen. So how about you stop pestering her and leave her be for now.” Abigail watches Arthur tense a bit, embarrassed, before grumbling an apology and leaving quickly.  Hosea shakes his head as he closes the tent flaps, “That boy, I swear...” but there’s something in his face that Abigail can read for once that he just can’t quite hide. Something sad and guilty.

 

Abigail doesn’t say anything though, focuses on her tight, shallow breathing.

 

“He’s right though, loosen the corset, hun.” Hosea says as he goes through his satchel, “Nobody here wants to see you hurt yourself.”

 

She thinks that it may be true, no one in the gang seems like the kind of people that would want to hurt their own if they did nothing to them. Except Abigail is still unsure if she's one of them, and she did do something she wasn’t supposed to that could burden them. So, she’s not as confident now.

 

She leaves her hands at her sides, watches Hosea pull out some herbs and pills. “I’ve got some dried pennyroyal and sage here along with these pills. Supposed to induce _'female regularity'_ , which I can only assume means you’re not supposed to take them when you’re pregnant,” Hosea rolls his eyes as he reads the tin, “Regardless I can brew them in a tea for you.” He holds out his hand so she can take them, but Abigail can’t help but stare at the pretty woman adorning the tin. Fake smile painted on.

 

Hosea frowns and says, “Abigail, look at me.” She does, but reluctantly. His tired face has some concern there, not pity, just… worry. Something she’s not used to. “What do you want to do?”

 

And suddenly, for the life of her, she doesn’t know how to answer that.

 

She gives him a questioning look and he sighs of all things. He puts the herbs and pills back into his satchel before gently placing his hands on her bare shoulders.

 

“I don’t want you to think I’m forcing you to do this. It’s your choice in the end.”

 

That… makes no sense. It’s obvious what she should do, what she wants isn’t relevant here. It has never been relevant since she was nine. Then again it’s not like she’d know what she wanted _even if_ she really had a choice in the matter.

 

Unless… _Does she_?

 

And it hits her harder than a stampede of wild stallions.

 

“I—” her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

 

“Abigail?” Hosea’s eyes widen.

 

Something is burning her face, and it takes her a jarring moment to realize that _she’s crying_.

 

“I don’t know what I want…” she says, the sound shattering like glass.

 

* * *

 

It’s been three days since the incident in Susan’s tent. Or at least that’s what Hosea calls it. He’s still not sure what happened, but he’s read a few books about it. How sometimes a person just goes hysterical and breaks down into nothing before rebuilding themselves back up piece by broken piece. And now that he thinks about it, his carefully guarded emotions throughout the matter probably mislead Abigail more than it helped her.

 

He didn't wanna pressure her, but in the end he just confused the hell outa her.

 

He looks at her from across camp and watches her as she scrubs some dishes. He notices her fidgeting, switching back and forth from being gentle with her movements to rough and careless. She’s at a crossroads. He realized that night in the tent. There’s a choice here she can make, but he suspects that she’s never had that freedom before.

 

It’s common for working girls to have their God-given privileges taken away. Stripped from them until all they know is how to please. Hell, it happened to all kinds of women, not just whores. However, Susan was always different. She always looked after her girls and made the men know the house rules when it came to sex and work. And he and Dutch agreed. The girls always had a choice, they didn’t tolerate anything less.

 

But sometimes it was hard on some girls. To accept that they had choices when they never really had them before. Never _allowed_ to have them.

 

Like Eliza.

 

Hosea suddenly notices Arthur quickly lifting a heavy box of dishes onto Pearson’s wagon, Abigail glaring at him with her hands on her hips.

 

“Thank you Mr. Morgan, but I’m capable of liftin’ some plates on my own.” he faintly hears the woman say. Arthur laughs and says something Hosea can’t make out before Abigail shoos him off. To an outsider, it would look as though Arthur was just being gentlemanly (to some it may look as though he was even trying to be flirty), but Hosea knew better.

 

Arthur came to him that night after Hosea had left Abigail sleeping, blankets draped over her in a cocoon that he hoped provided a sense of security. He was jittery, possibly tipsy, and looking as though he wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep that night.

 

“Is Abigail all right?” he had asked, his tone guarded.

 

“She’s just gotta bit of a bug. Pearson’s food is finally getting to her.” he chuckled, but Arthur didn’t, his face remained perfectly neutral.

 

“It’s just…” Arthur started, hands clenching and unclenching from his sides. He was never good with words, especially words that left him vulnerable, “She’s been gettin’ sick in the mornings and… she’s been tightin’ up her corset more and more and…”

 

“It’s nothin’ to worry about, Arthur—”

 

“Eliza did the same thing right when she found out about Isaac.” Arthur interrupted, voice going quiet and tense. A very rare need to reveal fears and to be reassured by someone he trusted most.

 

Hosea knew this would happen, he’d hoped that Arthur wouldn’t notice, but he was a father once. Only once. But it was enough for him to know the tells. Know when a woman was carrying a child and when she was scared into action.

 

Hosea sighed, “It’s nothin’ like that,” he steered Arthur towards his tent, “She’s just worried about not doing her share if she gets sick. It’s just stress is all. No need to worry,” Arthur looked at him skeptically, not entirely convinced, then again Hosea didn’t want to put in the effort of lying well. He was just as exhausted. “Get some sleep son.” he had said before gently pushing Arthur through his tent flaps and closing them.

 

Hosea knows that his half-assed excuses didn’t work, didn’t expect them to honestly. Arthur’s been keeping close to camp and Hosea catches the man looking at Abigail with a pained look. Old memories making him unfocused and slow.

 

Hosea will have to talk to him again, but for now, he needs to deal with Abigail. She’s the priority here. That and smacking John upside the head.

 

 _Speak of the devil_ , he thinks as John rides back into camp, covered in dirt and a smug grin on his face. He goes to the camp's ledger with a sack of what Hosea can only assume was a good robbery. Dutch even comes out of his tent to congratulate the boy.

 

There’s a sense of pride in Hosea as well, but it disappears when he catches a glimpse of Abigail looking at John with a stormy expression. As though she’s not sure what to feel so she lets the emotions take her like the rolling waves of the sea.

 

Hosea doesn’t want to admit it, but he can’t deny it. Abigail’s in love.

 

There’s no wondering about who the father is because it’s clear as day when he looks at Abigail’s face.

 

He sighs to himself. It just makes this mess even more complicated.

 

* * *

 

 

Hosea catches Abigail the next day, sitting outside camp, watching the setting sun. She looks content, but he's not fooling himself into thinking she's made a decision.

 

He walks up to her and takes a seat on the tall grass that's already pressed down. He opens the book he's been trying to get through for the past few days now, but he finds himself reading the same paragraph over and over, unable to retain the information. 

The memories coming and going, distracting him. Making him feel reprehensible in a way. He catches himself looking at Arthur, regret twisting his gut as he watches the man help Abigail with some of her chores. But Hosea wonders if Arthur is doing it out of kindness or guilt when he sees Arthur drinking later with a concealed, haunted look on his face. And then Hosea has to stop himself from going down that path.

 

There’s choices this time, and he’ll make them as clear as day if he has to. It won’t be like last time.

 

"You doin' okay?" he asks, just to start a conversation.

 

Abigail hums noncommittally, then, "I saw John head into town with some of the boys. Mentioned something about going to the local saloon."

 

Ah…

 

 _Goddamnit_.

 

"Abby—"

 

"I know Hosea. I can't be mad at him though. I haven't even told him, or anyone besides you," a pause, "And that's only because you stuck your nose into my business without my say so…" she mutters.

 

Hosea chuckles at the insult, "But you haven't yelled at me yet."

 

"No, I guess not." he glances at her and watches the way she rips grass out of the ground. Nails clawing in the dirt like she wants to tare at flesh.

 

“This is probably a bad time to ask—”

 

“Then don’t ask,” Abigail says, tone light but still serious.

 

But Hosea never really was one to walk on eggshells, not even for people he was fond of, “You make a decision yet?”

 

Abigail stays silent for a beat, then, “I… I still don’t know what to do.”

 

“It’s not about what to do. We’ll get there once you made a choice,” Hosea looks back at his book and starts at the top of the paragraph again, “It’s about what you want.”

 

Abigail sighs, “That’s the _problem_ though. I don’t know what it is that I want.”

 

There’s a pause between them. Hosea places his thumb on the sentence he was at before looking up. Sees Abigail looking at him with a lost look in her eyes that does not bode well. She’s scared, not something he’s seen from her before, but she’s also looking at him with a familiar desperateness that he’s seen on so many people, it’s one of the easiest emotions he can read.

 

“I can’t tell you either. That’s somethin’ you’ll have to figure out on your own.” he feels bad in not showing any mercy to her, but he can’t, not in this.

 

Her mouth becomes a thin line then, brows furrow as she looks off to the side before she nods curtly, “I know, I just…”

 

“You never done this before have you? Asked for help…”

 

Abigail nods again, facing the field this time.

 

“I wish I could help you more, Abby, really wish I could,” he watches her shoulders rise and fall as she sighs, “Look, I can at least tell you that no matter what you decide, I’ll support you.”

 

She looks back at him then, eyes glassy and nods again before looking back.

 

They stay like that for a while, enough for Hosea to at least get to the bottom of the page. A personal accomplishment in of itself.

 

Then, “I— I think I should tell John?” she looks at him again, lost eyes finding his, “Do you think that’s… wise?”

 

Hosea loses his place again. He sighs.

 

He can help her in this he supposes, “That’s up to you. If you plan to keep the child then I’d say yes, but if you don’t then I don’t see the point. Does that make sense?”

 

“Yeah, I just…” She bites her lip, looking out at the sunset once more. There’s another long pause, and Hosea waits patiently.

 

He watches her hands tremble and her jaw do the same. There are tears running down her cheeks and he wonders, not for the first time, why people think he’s any good at giving advice.

 

“Abby—”

 

“Why is it so _hard_?” Abigail grits out, voice a tattered mess.

 

Hosea can’t help it. Old regrets and instincts kick in against his better judgment and he wraps an arm around her shoulder. He brings her into his warmth and lets her cry quietly beside him. He gives her kisses atop the crown of her head, whispers that things will be okay, that things will work out. Somehow. Because he won’t let what happened in the past, happen again.

 

Life is unfair to many, but Hosea has also learned over his long life that it doesn’t have to be unbearable. Not as long as you have people who care. Even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on. This, he finds, is something he can do for her.

 

He never manages to finish that book.

 

* * *

 

 

She makes her choice a few days later. After a night of unrest and another nightmare about her mother.

 

It’s a logical decision. Common sense really.

 

Abigail knows there’s a choice, one that she can make. But really, there’s only one.

 

She’s given it some thought. Knows that John may be friendly to her, but not friendly enough that he’d be willing to have a child with her or share in that responsibility. And frankly, that’s fine with her. She may love him like she loves the morning sun that brings in her favorite colors, but she’s not about to think he feels the same.

 

She’s a whore after all.

 

And speaking of which, that’s another reason. She ain’t fit to be a decent lady. Not a wife. Not a mother. Whatever sense of instinctual care she may have had at nine, is not present now at seventeen. She’s not that much of an idiot. She lacks the skills to raise a child, whether it be with a husband or on her own. It’s just not in her nature.

 

The gang can’t take that responsibility from her either. She made this bed, she’ll have to lie in it. Honestly, the gang would probably appreciate it if she told them. They don’t need to worry about some pregnant fool of a woman causin’ them trouble. They don’t need more mouths to feed.

 

It’s just better for everyone.

 

Cut the head off the snake.

 

She goes to Hosea’s tent and quietly calls for him. When he sticks his head out, she can see that he knows what she wants just by looking at her.

 

“Alright, come in,” he says.

 

He prepares the tea for her with a careful hand. She watches as he crushes the pennyroyal, the sage, the pills and strains them through a cloth and hot water into a mug. When he hands it over, it’s scorching.

 

“Wait ‘til it cools down, don’t want you burning yourself. Drink the whole thing,” he advises. She holds the cup delicately, feeling it burn her fingers like a red hot iron.

 

It smells like spearmint. Like her favorite candy when she was a child.

 

She walks out of the tent before Hosea can say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Abigail stands by the fire when everyone's gone to sleep. Cup in hand, she stares at the dying flames. The tea is still warm, a small comfort despite the purpose of the drink.

 

The flames flicker in the silence. Abigail is left filling it with her thoughts.

 

A memory, foggy around the edges but sharp where it matters, where it hurts.

 

Her mother, whispering to her in the early hours of the morning, hemming the clothes her older brother was supposed to be buried in.

 

"You'll be my perfect boy, won't you Richard? Mother loves you so much." She says through tears as she buttons up the shirt.

 

Abigail didn't know what to say, but at nine years old, what can you say? So she remains silent and becomes Richard. Her dead brother. She becomes the man of the house because her father was no longer there too.

 

And her mother forgets that she has a daughter.

 

Years go by, of her mother pushing her outside, telling her to run and play with the neighborhood boys even though they made fun of her for doing so. To rough house and curse and lie and steal, just like a boy. Just like her mother told her to. Because it made her happy. Because it made her nice. Because it meant Abigail didn't get beat.

 

At thirteen she falls in love with an older boy who tells her likes her too. It fills her heart with so much joy that she tells her mother that she doesn't want to be Richard anymore.

 

"You ungrateful little _shit!_ " Her mother screams, "I raised you better than that, Richard. How _dare_ you!" Abigail is sure Hell's gate has opened up in their tiny kitchen. And it might as well have. In her mother's rage, Abigail is left broken and wailing. Left on the doorstep of some whorehouse in another town bleeding and battered, but healthy enough to do some work.

 

And yet at the time, she thought to herself, _"At least I can wear dresses now."_ It was the only comfort she got.

 

The flames flickers. There's the sound of grass crunching behind her. The tea is still warm.

 

"Hey, Abigail. You're up late." John greets her. He sounds like he's got something in his mouth, and the snapping and soft fwoosh that comes shortly after reveals that it was a cigarette.

 

There's an awkward silence between them that lasts a little too long, only for Abigail to realize that she was supposed to respond to him.

 

"You alright? Been actin' a bit strange." It's a casual observation. Anyone in camp has probably already made it. She shrugs, humming as a way of answering him. She swirls the mug of tea. Smells the faint odor of spearmint mixed with the stench of tobacco.

 

Another long pause, then, "I'm just worried is all," John says, "I know what it's like having to bunk with Miss Grimshaw. Woman snores like a bear."

 

Abigail looks at him then. Sees a playful smile on his stubbled face that reminds her so much of the first night she spent with him.

 

She was at a low point. She was scared, unfamiliar of her place, of who she was and was meant to be. But she did her job because what else was she supposed to do?

 

John had been kind, maybe not the most attentive, but most men she slept with weren't. She sat in John's cot, woken from a nightmare she could barely remember. But her mother was there and that was all she needed to feel alone and helpless.

 

John started awake next to her. He had asked what was wrong. And like the scared moron she was, she talked about it with trembling hands.

 

After all was said and done, he had said, "Makes sense. You're pretty rough, and you did take more charge than most women I sleep with. Not that I mind though."

 

She looked up to give him an incredulous glare but ended up facing a playful smile and kind brown eyes looking back at her. It was at that moment she realized that she was in love with the idiot.

 

And as she stands there, staring at that same face now, she realizes another truth.

 

She wants a family.

 

She wants someone to look at her like that every day and not have something taken from her in return. She wants to not be lonely anymore. Wants to live a life where she can make choices for herself, to have the option to make those choices. She wants to be able to say _yes_ and _no_ and _mean it_.

 

And fuck anyone who thinks they can take that from her. Including her Goddamn self.

 

She may be a fool, but she was a _stubborn_ fool.

 

John’s smile falls as the pause between them grows. After another beat, he says, “I mean it though, Abby, is there something wrong?”

 

She looks back at the fire, the flames stubbornly burning away.

 

“I’m pregnant.”

 

The silence that follows is _deafening_.

 

She reaches out her hand that holds the cooling mug of tea right over the dying fire, before pouring it onto the flames, encasing them in the darkness with the moon and stars their only company. It’s comforting in a way. Blinds her from having to see John’s reaction.

 

The smell of spearmint and smoke is overpowering.

 

“The baby’s yours.” She turns then and walks back to her tent.

**Author's Note:**

> While doing research for this fic (and when I say research, I mean quickly skimming thru wikipedia) I've learned a lot about abortion history and it's practices before modern times, including but not limited to the use of pennyroyal as an abortifacients (and that a word like that exists). But as a side note, PLEASE don't ever use pennyroyal. It's poisonous and is used in pesticides. Just... ya know. A general warning for the lot of you.
> 
> Also, for those wondering, Abigail's weird backstory is based off of an interaction you can witness in camp, where John insults Abigail in a... _very strange_ way that sounds a lot more personal than just calling her a man, and frankly, Abigail's response is pretty harsh for such a weak insult if it wasn't personal to begin with. So, me being me, and reading _way_ too into small, insignificant things, made a headcanon around this interaction.


End file.
